Kiss Me
by ingeniousmacabre
Summary: Being in love with his neighbor's best friend/ex-roommate has complications attached. Especially when she's about to get married. (AU)
1. Prelude

The problem with love is that it comes with a certain amount of hate. And an even greater amount of hurt.

Like, a lot of hurt.

And it's not a hurt that can be categorized between the levels of a stubbed toe and an axe through the skull, oh no. It's not that kind of pain. The same goes with the hatred. You can't gauge this kind of loathing based on how cruel you'd wish for the other person.

Because there are no cruel wishes for the other person. That's why it hurts.

Love is beautiful. Unless it's ripped from you, torn away in a sudden motion that spins your world and leaves you reeling. And then the world is a blur. You can't see shit, because love is blindness, too. Especially when it walks away from you.

And then it's not love, or hate. It's just hurt.

.:.

* * *

_"One, two, three, four..."_

He can pinpoint four pivotal moments in his life that got him here. Four, gargantuan mistakes. Out of those four, he was so fortunate to have been witness to five.

He is in a bar, in New York, where it is a prerequisite to be emotionally empty and drained to be able to enjoy anything, most especially the vapid company of other, similarly-emptied strangers on their personal road to hell and other destinations. Sipping his beer dangerously slow, on the constant edge of falling into his dead self, he stands his ground. Or rather, his seat. He will not move. Not for the blond whose cleavage is practically being shoved into his face, or the tall, Greek model whose dark, dark eyes are beckoning him into them. No, he will not move.

Because, unlike some people, he knows where his heart lies.

He cannot think of a better place to be, being without her, not around her. He can't stand her. At the same time, it's deathly intoxicating to be with her, and it's not. fucking. healthy. Especially for a grown man his age, come on. He's an adult, for crying out loud.

He shouldn't be moping about some girl. He should be out, drowning his sorrows in the company of those who have similarly lost enough of themselves in so many other people that there is nothing left.

But he's not that kind of person. And he hates that he can't just be that kind of person.

He tried, though. Give him credit, at least, for dating that one reporter once and making it to their third movie together. But when she hadn't appreciated Guillaume Canet's performance, he had called it quits. Looking back now, his semi-healthy obsession with cinema, all kinds of cinema, has probably reached record heights after what happened.

Which is, what happened. Ugh. He finishes a good lug of his beer and orders another one.

So when Ed Sheeran's very old, very over-used, and very beautiful song comes on, he decides that today, the universe has left him a very important message about life, which is that it is a horrible, horrible bitch.

...

Beca doesn't try to justify the tight, incredibly annoying, white dress.

She hates this. Why can't they just sign the damned papers? Why does she have to celebrate another meaningless promise?

She takes a minute to look at herself, to see herself, in the tall, broad mirror in the shop. Something doesn't feel right. Then again, nothing has felt right in the longest time, so she lets the feeling slip just like she had, so many times before, over and over.

She shudders for the day that she would have to make the feeling permanent. And then she realizes, that day is impossibly close.

...

He hails cab, thinks about what it would mean if he just... gave the wrong address... or the right address. It's a constant internal debate that he keeps on losing... or winning... he doesn't really know anymore.

He's had an uncountable amount of beers. He doesn't know anything anymore.

...

She doesn't know how she got here, but she's here, and she can't do this.

"I can't do this... I'm sorry."

It was the final breath to a dying connection. Then again, she wonders if it had ever been alive. She takes her bags, leaving her bulky ring on the counter, the machine blinking with her pre-recorded message.

The absence of the band on her finger is strange, but it's something she is looking forward to getting used to. It hurts, sure. But everything does, at first. It's like ripping off a band-aid, or eating broccoli. Hurts the first time, but it gets better. God, she hopes so.

She calls Chloe. She can't deal with this alone.

...

It's late. _He's_ late. He has been, for a while now.

He stumbles into his apartment building, wondering why the hell he can't just float up to his room, stupid stairs. Why doesn't he just... die? Right now?

Aw, shit. Depressing thoughts.

Struggling up the stairs, always fighting the urge to give up every three steps and _fall_, he manages to reach the third floor. A miracle. The first he's known. Since her. But that didn't turn out to be such a miracle after all, so maybe this one is no different.

...

She spends the rest of her afternoon walking aimlessly. Everywhere and nowhere. Sometime between yesterday and eternity, she feels her eyes moisten.

...

He can't find his damned keys.

Fuck, did he leave it in the cab? The bar? He can't remember shit. Fantastic timing, really. Everything is amazing.

...

Her eyes won't. stop. crying.

Why. Why can't she stop crying? She doesn't even cry, godssakes. But the toil, the idea that it's over, that it's done, that she did it. It's joy and pain and a bunch of other, useless emotions crowding her lung capacity and she can't get a thought in sideways between all her sobs.

Up, up the stairs she goes, random tear stains from her hand traveling back and forth, between her black, melting eyes and the solid of the railing. She needs Chloe. Where is that damned redhead? She needs Chloe. And Ben. And Jerry. And Häag. And Dazs.

She reaches the third floor, sees him, fumbling for his keys, diagonally inclined against the wall, slumping, dejected. Drunk.

She fights a sniffle. She doesn't want him to see her like this.

But she can't see him like that, either. So she wipes her tears away, her mascara leaving trails on the back of her hand.

...

Why did he have to have so many damned keys? What the hell are these keys for, anyway? It's not like he has a car, a garage, a fucking cabinet with a working lock. He fans out his options, picking out whichever sensible one he thinks will fit the keyhole to his apartment, when he feels small arms around him. He feels the jolt of his realization feed his blood with enough adrenaline to sober him up for a word, a name.

...

"Bec?"

He's fucking heavy, but not as heavy as she expected. Did he lose weight?

"Dude, come on..."

She's tiny, and this tiny-ness doesn't help her as she tries to straighten him up, facing him to her, looking at him...

...

He is so drunk, he's fucking hallucinating.

But when her hands take his face and she searches his eyes, he swears he would give up real life for this freeze-frame.

...

"Are you drunk?"

"Mebe."

She breaths a brief _oh my god _before wrapping his arm around her shoulder, taking his keys and opening the door to his humble abode.

On his tattered couch, she half lays, half drops him. She goes to his kitchen, gets water, bathroom, aspirin (that's what they give to drunk people, right?) but she can't find any, so water will have to do.

She returns to an empty couch.

...

"Dude, don't stand."

He hears her words. Definitely, her words. She's here.

He turns around and nearly loses his balance, before she's right beside him again, a balancing act between his intoxicated body and the glass of water in her hand.

Is he dead? Is this... _death_?

...

She ushers him, _again_, to the couch. Where he plops, his body limp of anything holding him together. She's breathing heavily. He's like weights. This definitely counts as cardio.

Hands on her hips, mind far away from today's problems, she looks at her poor friend. What could have possibly caused this?

...

Her.

She's in front of him. Beca. What?

"What are you doing here?"

His eyes when he looks up at her, are bloodshot, red, tired. She can't help but feel for him. Sitting beside him, she gives him the glass, helping him drink.

What has he gotten himself into?

Jesse isn't like this. He's not a drinker, and he's certainly not a drunk. She's never seen him like this, and it's not good. Today's frustrations are redirected towards caring for him tonight. She makes him lie down, gets him a blanket, props him up. This is good. She needs this. She needs to forget. She needs to redirect the negative energy into something positive, or some such shit that Aubrey would tell her.

...

He wakes up at three in the morning with a hopeful dream.

But it wasn't a dream. He's on his couch. Under a blanket he doesn't use. In last night's clothes, with the first three buttons undone. And he's not wearing shoes.

Beca.

...

She tosses and turns. She can barely make out the "3" on the wall clock.

Lying on Chloe's couch, she had finally succumbed. Thirty minutes ago. But she can't sleep for more than thirty minutes at a time before the hurt assaults her and she's crying again. So she sits up, this time, buries her face in her hands. She fucking sobs because she can.

...

Jesse stares at the black shade of ceiling.

He cant sleep. Hasn't been able to, for a while now. It takes a strange amount of time before the hurt assaults him, and he can feel that familiar hollowness in his chest. Being in love with his neighbor's best friend/ex-roommate has complications attached. Especially when she's about to get married.

* * *

.:.

**Author's Note:**

I didn't mean to. I'm sorry.

Starting a new story is not in my morning list, what with two works in progress, but I couldnt stop listening to Ed and thinking angsty thoughts, so this was born. And it's been sitting in my writing for a while now, so what the hey. I don't where it's going. I don't know what it is yet. I don't even know if I like it. I'm sorry, it's just... eh. Needed to get some drama out of my system. If ever, this will be short. Like, a three-shot. (emphases on _if_)

For the guest reviewer on _Inked_, who told me to keep writing. So there.

Also, if I'm not mistaken, this has been done before? A Jesse/Beca story based on this song, I think. Just so y'all know.

MUSIC: _Kiss Me_ - Ed Sheeran


	2. One::

.:: One ::.

She comes into his life as easily as a whisper.

He's still reeling from his last breakup, and Chloe, the unreal angel that she is, pestering him to get better and be happy, like happiness were sold, now available in drug stores nationwide, decides to throw a party in honor of all the sad souls in this world.

It was a Thursday. He's sure, because he remembers that it wasn't a Friday, and it wasn't a Monday, and out of all the days in between, Thursday seems like the logical choice. He goes over at Chloe's place, two doors down, the only apartment with access to the rooftop, because the universe loves Chloe. Everybody loves Chloe. Hell, _he_ loves Chloe. He had just broken up with her, after all. (And by "just", he means it on his own, acceptable standards.)

This is when he sees another girl. With her skirt stuck underneath the bathroom door.

It was a maxi dress that Chloe had evidently forced her into wearing, he could tell. Swamping her body in a sea of fabric, it looks like _the dress_ is wearing _her_. So he approaches the small creature that was to be the stuff of both his dreams and nightmares.

"You need help with that?"

Beer in hand, unabashedly deciding that it's about time he gets himself laid again, at the party of his ex-girlfriend (which was probably thrown for this very purpose anyway), he asks her. Looking back now, she must've had a clever, snarky retort to shameless douchebags like him. But she was being nice.

"No, I got it. Thanks."

It'll probably be about forty seconds before someone needs to go pee, and the poor girl is standing awkwardly askew, a handful of the inconvenient skirt in one hand, trying to get it to budge from underneath the door.

"Can't you open it?"

"Oh my god, why didn't I think of that?"

She's being sarcastic. He likes her.

"Here, let me."

He places his cup on the nearest flat surface, goes right beside her and nudges the door open. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe he's Superman. But for whatever reason, he got the door to budge.

Wide open. It's broken.

The guilt/embarrassment he feels at that moment lasts two seconds, right before the little woman to his right starts bursting into unsuccessfully-repressed giggle-snorts.

"Quick... put it back before someone notices..." she says.

He puts it back... ish. He hopes it will hold.

She's still giggling, and yes, it's majorly embarrassing, he just broke his ex's bathroom door in front if his ex's friend...

Her beautiful, small friend. With the spiky thing on the ear.

He takes a good look at her, smiling up at him, and he knows he's in trouble.

Dark hair, dark, purple eyes, small body, even smaller hint of mockery in that smile, he's kinda intrigued. Definitely not girlfriend material, but hey. He can roll with this. He can roll with this all night long.

"So, how do you know Chlo," he asks her as he turns around to get his cup of beer. But she's gone the moment he turns back. She's walking away.

Well, now. He's no Brad Pitt, but really?

The night passes by, and he glimpses her every now and then. Sometimes she catches his eyes, sometimes she doesn't. Sometimes she tries to ignore his gaze, sometimes she shoots it right back. And it's a strange, flirting competition to see who would intimidate whom.

Like right now.

She's across the room, talking to a tall blond who's boring her, he can tell. He knows the feeling; the equally tall, equally blond woman in front of him makes him feel the same way. So at this instance, when his eyes meet hers, it's not so much a spark as a sudden and immediate friction, a tiny fractional burn.

_"I've fallen for your eyes, but they don't know me yet..."_

With Ed Sheeran's voice echoing in the background, (tragically appropriate, now that he thinks about it) she obliges his gaze with a look of her own. She smirks at him, and it's tinged with that implied understanding between the two of them, seventeen feet across the room, looking at each other, and it's not flirting anymore.

Great. Now, he wants to actually _know_ her.

He excuses himself and makes his way towards her, not once tearing his eyes away, even if she turns back to the guy in front. He can just make out the accent of her conversational partner. Ah, Englishmen. No place for them here, in the land of the free.

"...to the garage tonight. I think you should come with."

He places himself at that awkward position, where the weirdos stand, those third-wheelers that try to jump in at completely inappropriate times during conversations that don't belong to them.

But that's okay, he tells himself. He's been speaking to her eyes for around two minutes now. That should count for something.

He lets the blond guy finish, and they both finally recognize his presence, invading the personal space of this guy's boring advances. The blond guy looks annoyed. She looks amused.

"Is that the one near that diner?"

He's making a fool of himself, trying to pick up where where the two of them left off.

"Dude," she laughs, "that's a literal garage. With, like, cars. Do you even know what we're talking about?"

"Nope."

To his immense relief, her eyes crinkle with the effort to hold back a laugh. Or an insult. He doesn't really know, but that's fine.

"Can we help you?" The blond guy asks.

"Yeah, actually. Would any of you know where the other bathroom is? The door to that one's broken. Someone must've been really strong. Or in a hurry."

She full-on smiles. Total win.

"Um, yeah," she says.

(It should be noted that there is that subtle, flirting glint in her eyes, and that he totally gets the hint.)

"I know where the bathroom is. Come, I'll show you."

She leads him away with a half-hearted farewell to the blond.

On they walk, through Chloe's apartment, with her knowing it almost as much as he does. Over to the back of the corridor, turn left, Chloe's guest room.

The door is shut and locked before either of them can protest. Not that either of them had any plans to.

Okay, so this wasn't his intention. _Wish_, maybe. Plea, prayer, call it whatever. But he had walked over to her with very honorable motives, really. He thinks. But definitely, her mouth on his was not part of the initial game plan. So when she pulls on his collar with the speed to rival a Ferrari, he has no time to worry if there's anyone else is in the room. They can watch, because _damn, son_.

He can feel the rise in temperature as her hands find their way around his neck and he has to lean down because she's pulling him closer and closer and impossibly closer until she's backed against something and he takes her waist and props her on whatever that is but he can't tell because his eyes are closed and so are hers because her mouth is wide open against his and she's taking his breath away along with his coherence.

Neither one of them notice the change of breath, the quickening of pulses, the heaviness of the air that they're now sharing. Before he knows it, before he can even _blink_, she's hiking her longer-than-life dress and she's flush against him bracketing his hips and still kissing him hard and wow. This is fast.

Hey, not that he minds. It's been a while.

Okay, so maybe he minds a little bit.

"Wait, wait."

It takes all his self control (literally all of it, scraped from the bottom of what dignity he has left) to break away, and her confused expression is kind of intimidating. They are both panting, because they both only really want one thing... right?

"As much as I... I would love to... continue this right here—and I do, I would love to... like, more than anything—I figure that maybe... can I maybe get your name first...?"

He searches her eyes for any hint that he may have lost her, because so far, she just looks peeved. And then she mocks him with a half-smile.

"You scared you might scream out the wrong name?"

This. woman.

He buries his breathless laughs in her neck, and she joins in, giggling at the utter misfortune of the bucket of water thrown smack dab in the middle of their hot little situation.

He can feel her relax into his body, burying her face in his shoulder, and they settle into a strangely comfortable embrace, of sorts. And then she whispers something, barely audible.

"Beca."

She ghosts the word across the shell of his ear and he barely makes it past the last syllable.

He kisses her again, slower, steady, because he's trying to communicate. Whatever this is, he kind of... doesn't want it to be meaningless. Maybe he can get her number, take her on a real date one of these days. Fat chance. But he's hoping, to the stars, that she won't be gone too fast. He kinda... wants to know...

The feel of her cold palms against his abs cuts off all logic. What was he thinking about again?

Oh, yes. Apparently, she's not one for "slow" and "steady", because it's either 1) she's cold, or 2) she's trying to magically meld their bodies together from the way her skin is magnetized to his own. Two pieces of a puzzle, fit snugly into each other. And making out with such _intensity, _it's suffocating.

And then she reaches for his buckle, and he is so, so dead.

"We should... probably..."

"Mhmm."

"Like... Beca?..."

"Oh my god, would you shut up?"

She punctuates this with a horribly fierce, open-mouthed kiss and he. can't. do. shit.

She's finally succeeded in undoing his buckle, and reaches for his button...

"Wait, we should take this to the bed," he says, finally (_finally_) forming a coherent sentence. "Chlo likes this desk."

At the mention of his ex, Beca freezes. The hazy cloud of lust falls from her expression and she's suddenly dead serious, staring at him.

"You know Chloe?"

"Well, yeah. It _is_ her party."

It takes her a moment of staring out into the void, piecing the pieces together. Pulled away from him, there's around five inches of good distance between their bodies, and it's a cold wedge between them. She's seems to be searching, searching. And then it hits her, and she has to cover her gaping mouth.

"Oh my god... you're... Jesse..."

"So you can read minds _and_ be sarcastic—"

"Oh my god... oh my god..."

The air is changed, and she continues her mantra of _oh dear god_ and _oh crap_, pushing him away, getting down from the desk and going over the edge of the bed for the sole purpose of leaning on her elbows and burying her face in her hands. She murmurs something that sounds like "shit", muffled against her palms.

He is still standing there, belt unbuckled and it takes a while for the hazy cloud of lust to fall from _his_ expression.

"Beca?"

She shakes her head, her face still smothered by her hands.

"I'm... sorry?"

She finally looks up at him, a tight smile gracing her features, without the slightest hint of the saucy minx that was unbuckling him not forty seconds ago.

"Chloe told me about you," she suddenly says.

Sure, he feels his heart skip a beat at that. It's been, like what, three months? Technically, they're _way_ past the barricade of _over_, and it's safe to say that he's over her. Of course, he's not really the type to actually get over someone. He's more of _The relationship we had will be something I will cherish forever (!)_ type of guy.

"Oh yeah?"

She nods, apologetic. Oh, okay. He gets it. He sits beside her embarrassed face.

"Dude, I... didn't know... that was such a dick move..." she says, and the extended face-palming begins, yet again.

"Um... I don't think Chloe would mind. I mean, she's been setting me up with—"

"No, you don't get it," she interrupts, now turning to face him. "Has... Chloe ever told you about... Mitch?"

Yeah, sure. Mitch is Chloe's bestest friend in the world, Chloe's favorite person, even more than he was when they were dating. How can Jesse forget Mitch, the guy who had totally made him jealous during his earlier dates with Chloe, with her mentioning and texting him endlessly. He had stopped being jealous when Chloe told him that Mitch wasn't into girls that way. Sure, he knows Mitch.

"Yeah... what about him?"

"Um... not a dude. Mitch? He's... not a dude."

He still doesn't get it.

"My last name is Mitchell."

The pursing of her smile and that familiar crinkling in her eyes would have been adorable, were it not for its implications.

"Oh, god."

Holy shit. He just made out with his ex's best friend.

"Oh my god."

"Yup."

"This is..."

"Yeah."

"...bad."

There is nothing more to do than for both of them to turn awkwardly away from each other, face the same direction, thinking about their life choices. Sitting on the edge of Chloe's fluffy guest bed, two random strangers and a metaphorical bucket of ice washing away whatever's left of the previous moment's unspoken desires.

"This is totally not awkward. At all," he starts, breaking the silence.

She turns to look at him, and he can barely register that expression she has when you know, you just know, that she's calling you a weirdo in her mind right now.

"Should we tell her?" she asks.

"I don't know."

"I mean... you guys are cool... right?"

"Yeah..." he answers absentmindedly.

Chloe and he are cool. They ended in what could only be termed as the kindest, gentlest breakup in the world, it could almost win a Nobel Peace Prize. Literally, both of them deciding that it just didn't work.

And then, she's gone. Just like that, from his life.

And okay, he's sentimental. It's in his genes. He can't help it if he misses her, and if he still feels that slight twang of guilt over the situation, or jealousy over her new boyfriend (who is equally cool, by the way. Tom is like, the guy version of Chloe. Only, not ginger. They'll make the perfect mellow-ginger babies.) They had a great time together, it was around six months. They broke up three months ago. They didn't exactly reach the _lets meet my best friends_ stage, so it's still pretty mild.

It's just that... he's a romantic. It's not her; it's him. It really is. She was funny, and gorgeous, and super sweet. And he's got a sweet tooth. And okay, he's had a crush on her since Barden, what with the acapella thing, and her being a senior and all. Older women? Super hot. So when fate brought them together under one apartment building a few years later, he took it as a sign.

"Dude..."

Beca wakes him from his musings, and when he looks at her, she looks shell-shocked.

"Oh my god," she says, and there is genuine concern in her eyes, "you're not yet over her, are you?"

"What? No... I mean yes—"

"...oh my god, I am... so sorry."

He wonders why it's such a big deal to her. They are broken up, and if anything, Chloe will probably set them up, sooner or later. But Beca is flustered and annoyed and he wonders.

"Look, it's not a big deal, I'm sure Chlo will under—"

"No... I mean, yeah, I get it. You guys are broken up, it's just—I'm sorry man. It's not fair to either of you."

Looking back now, that was his first big mistake. He should have listened to her. It was practically ominous. She had known it would end in disaster, but no. He just _had_ to fall a little bit more for this woman, with the earspike and tattoos.

He took her in, his first taste of the drug he would be subconsciously addicted to. He memorized the way her eyes lit up with only the smallest hint of concern, hidden underneath her heavy eyeliner. He chose to feel something, at that first moment.

...

He wishes he could take it back. Wishes he could take it all back. He wishes he could have just... turned away, turned it off. Ah, if only attraction had an "off" button.

At the same time, he doesn't wish a goddamn thing.

* * *

**AN:**

I make no promises ok this was supposed to be a useless drabble look at me and my life choices. I don't know how far this will get, but there is a sad song playlist on and it keeps on playing stuff that make me angst. I don't even know anymore. I know it's super bad but I needed this out of my system so I can work on Halfway There... unless y'all want an angsty chapter again...

I will leave this here. Deal with it as you wish. :)

(ps. if it's alright with you guys, could you drop me a song? My playlist is running dry, and I need a ton to finish the new chapters. I mean, if it isn't too weird to ask... pm me? Or whatever. Also, thanks to Katiekay30. You guys are the best.)

:)


	3. The Redhead's Formula

He can't decide if it's a knife, or a gun.

He decides that it's both, so he writes it down.

He writes down the lyrics, the words scratched brutally on the pitiful surface of the paper, the victim of his current circumstance. It's been a few weeks without word from her, and the invite is sitting on his table top, still unopened, just as it had been for the last four months.

Working on his music is definitely a good thing. He doesn't think he's been more productive ever in his life. The again, most of the products of his work ended up near the paper crumble mountain near his trash can. Ah, well. You win some, you lose some.

Last he'd seen her, he can't even remember. He was that drunk. But the lingering feel of her arms, her hands, are still on his skin, if he closed his eyes hard enough. If he thought about it hard enough, he could still hear her voice, still feel her presence beside his couch, helping him and being so enigmatic as to care for his inebriated self, after unwittingly causing it.

What happens is that, every time he tries to put something down, once his pen hits the bruised and battered surface of his scratch paper (because he had run out two days ago, and he's recycling), it doesn't quite end up right. There's something wrong.

Then again, nothing has been right since her.

He resolves to just wait it out. Nothing much he can do, anyway. Until his lovesick heart can heal itself, he'll be here. Stuck on an infinite time loop of crappy songs and insufficient distractions from the inexplicable... wrongness of it all.

He crumples his blank page and throws it away.

.:.

* * *

(A year ago...)

Across the universe. That's where the pieces of her heart are.

It's been a long-ass road to dwindling _nowhere_, and if she had known she would end up with her bags packed in front of apartment 3-F, she might as well have hooked up with Chloe some six months ago. Too bad, though. Six months of a false relationship and she catches him catching herpes from another woman in _her own_ goddamned bed, in her own (_godforsaken_) apartment_._ The only thing keeping her from burning her old address to the ground is the insurance. She's done.

And now, here she is, standing outside of Chloe's apartment with her half-empty bags (half-empty, because she's pessimist like that). Chloe's party hadn't been more than two weeks ago, and her run-in with Chloe's ex-boyfriend is still a little freshly weird in her mind. It stings with a guilt that she doesn't deserve. Especially because it hasn't been three weeks since her last breakup. She had almost made a rebound out of the still-healing ex-boyfriend of her very best friend whose apartment she is now about to crash without warning... yikes.

So now, here she is. Moving in with her best friend without so much as a "and by the way, I caught Luke cheating on me so you'll have to adopt me for public safety reasons" call, because she's badass like that. And she doesn't do phone calls. She tells tells herself it's fine, because Chloe hasn't been much for privacy and personal space, either. This can count as payback for all the times Chloe had intruded in her life. Like, in the showers on their first day of grad school together.

"Hey," she hears. Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees him close the door behind him, carrying trash out.

"Oh, hey," she says to Jesse, forever marked as Chloe's ex-boyfriend (also known as "him who must not be fucked" as according to Stacie's voice at the back of her mind). Crap. It feels like an inside joke between her and the universe. It's really not funny.

"Um, Chlo's not here right now; she volunteers on-"

"Sundays. Right," she adds, wincing because she totally forgot.

"Yeah... You okay? Sleepover?" He gestures to her bags.

"No, um... I'm moving in with her."

"Wow. Big step. Does she know you're moving in?"

"Not really."

"Ah."

"Yeah..."

There is that uncomfortable moment from the not knowing whether or not to acknowledge the almost-sex that happened two weeks ago.

"Yeah, well, um, Chlo won't be back for four hours. Do you have a place to stay?"

"Yeah," she says, brushing off the possible offer he would make.

"Really?"

She can tell, right now, that he's the persistent type. She looks at the ceiling, trying to come up with an answer, when he's suddenly taking her bags.

"Just what I thought. Come on, I just finished cleaning my apartment. And I won't even charge you."

Carrying her bags (Okay, gentleman. Duly noted.), he leads her two doors down, and she follows him because she doesn't have a choice, and she doubts serial killers are Chloe's type. Through the door, his little apartment is cozy, warm. Not what she had expected from a bachelor's pad (in other words: unlike Luke's, with the dirty underwear and the occasional unnamed, unidentified women's lingerie). He places her bags in the living room and goes straight into the kitchen.

"So," he calls out from the kitchen, "You and Chloe. Getting pretty serious, isn't it?"

"Yeah, you could say that," she replies, walking around his living room, piecing together his life story based on his photos, stuffs, parts of him scattered around. A lot of family photos. Mama's boy... alright. That's fine-ish. At least he's not, like, creepy-Uncle-Tom's boy.

She's immediately drawn to the piano to one side of the room, and the guitar.

"You into music?" he says, coming from the kitchen to find her by the musical corner of the room, handing her a glass of what seems to be scotch.

"Oh," she starts, staring at the glass, "isn't it a bit early for alcohol?"

"What? No. I'm a gentleman," he replies to her as she takes a sip. Apple juice. Amendment: Mama's _dorky _boy.

"I'm into music," she says, touching the black and white keys with a fondness reserved for the bedroom and the love of her life. (Which is _music._)

"Oh, how so?"

"I, um, used to mix songs," she absentmindedly adds, her gaze still lingering on the piano. She chuckles. "Not anymore, though. It was a stupid college thing. Now I just... work at a diner."

Embarrassing thing to admit to a stranger, sure. But he's no Hans Zimmer, anyway.

"You can try it out, I don't mind," Jesse finally says. She doesn't feign modesty when she takes a seat and starts out the first strains of a song. She's focused on the instrument, the muscle memory, so she doesn't think too much of it when she notices that he is completely still beside her. It's not exactly brilliant playing; she's a bit rusty, so when she can feel the hairs on the back of her neck rise from the heavy weight of awkward (seriously, _why is he staring_?), she stops short of a C sharp, hiding a chuckle.

"Dude, sorry. I just realized I'm using your stuff and I-"

"What? No, keep going."

She looks up at him, furrow in her brow, but decides that hey, at least she gets to play the piano again. She misses this.

...

(The piece finishes with an indiscernible sound, heard only by Jesse.)

"That was amazing," he says, when the last lingering note is laid to rest.

"Thanks."

In all truth, it was more than amazing. It's not easy to pull off Amelie's Valse that beautifully. That sound? It's Jesse's ears. Melting.

...

When, in the upcoming months, Beca and Jesse would find themselves in the middle of a complex zoo of dissatisfied friends (and _unsatisfied _emotions), let it be known that it was all Chloe's fault.

Her little ministrations on the edge of an unspoken topic became too much for Beca one Friday evening, and as always, when Chloe is in involved, stuff will snowball into dangerous levels of... more stuff. Possibly unwanted and _definitely not _normal people stuff.

(Amy, their _friend_, has come up with a theory called "The Redhead's Formula", where the amount of involvement of a ginger is directly proportional to the amount of results that will ensue from said involvement, for better or worse.)

"Dude, would you just stop it with Luke," Beca finally snaps back from Chloe's living room, her lazy ass sprawled all over the sofa, book lying open on her chest as she looks over at Chloe, in the dining, chopping off the white parts of the raw meat on the counter. (Chloe can't cook for her life. Why she insists on risking the kitchen and wasting good flour every week is a world mystery. Especially because none of her recipes even call for flour.)

"Well, how can you say that if you haven't even dated anyone else yet? I mean, just the other day, I think I saw him with-"

Beca rolls her eyes, because Chloe stops mid-sentence, a trick she's picked up from their psychologist friend, Stacie. Reactions are everything.

"Go on, say his name," Beca replies, drier than the Sahara. She picks up her book again and tries to focus on the woes of Bridget Jones' inability to have a fag.

"Look, Beca..." Chloe wipes her hands on her apron as it is Friday, and she's dabbling with the knives and the fire again, and Beca is at home because she has to ensure that she will still have an apartment to go to once Chloe is done with her (hopefully to-be-edible) lamb chops. "You'll never truly get over Luke if you don't convince yourself that you can be happy with someone else. You need to get your butt off that sofa."

No answer. Chloe huffs a sigh, wiping her flour-stained hand across her face to swipe at a strand of hair.

"Beca, Luke was a fool."

Still no answer. Beca's face is still beneath the huge open book. So Chloe goes over to the couch, takes Beca's legs and places them on her lap so she can sit down.

When Beca sits up and sniffles, Chloe doesn't acknowledge the warm haze around Beca's eyes, or the shine of impending, unwanted tears. She doesn't say anything about them, because for a girl like Beca, that would be just cruel.

Finally, Beca releases a small, tired laugh.

"What do I do?" The words are literally soaked, from the way they're spoken. Chloe feels her heart break.

"You have fun, and you tell yourself that that asshole was never worth it," is Chloe's answer.

So Beca tells herself to have fun. She tells herself all the reasons to not give thoughts about her cheating ex-boyfriend the time of day.

Thing is, these things are easier said than done.

...

Beca is in love.

She's in love with a man by the name of Jack, last name Daniels, nee Bailey. But she's cheating on him with Ben, and also Jerry (yummy, yummy twins), and she doesn't regret fuck. Because Chloe told her to have fun. So when Chloe goes out that Saturday with Tom, and Beca is left to her own devices, she grabbed the nearest "fun" from Chloe's cabinets, and damnit, she will have them.

Because if she can't have Luke, she will very well have fun.

So, okay. She's halfway through to sleepyland when a knock on the door gives her a frenzy. Oh, fuck. She nearly loses her grip on the bottle (on _Jack_) when she is jolted literally mid-sip, browsing on her iPad, in her socks, a lacy panty and a tank top over an unhooked bra. (Hers is the comfort.)

Another knock.

"I'm coming, I'm coming! Jeez." It's punctuated with a swig from good 'ol Jack's lips. She figures it must be the pizza place. It's about time.

"There's my pizza! Took you long enou-"

She opens the door, and it is not the pizza place.

Definitely _not_ the pizza place.

She blinks up at him, wide-eyed, trying to come up with an imaginary best friend to pin her whole lack-of-clothing, lack-of-makeup, (general lack of decency and dignity, more like) lack of common propriety situation on.

Aw, fuck.

Jesse is looking at her with amusement. At least, she hopes it's amusement. Not, like, condescension, or mockery. His brow is askew, and she's standing in front of him in her unfixed underwear, but all her (stupid intoxicated) brain can think about is how he smells nice. (Jack's fault, not hers.)

"You usually open the doors for pizza guys this way?" There's a small smile there, which dawns Beca with a sense of shame (completely numbed by the alcohol, of course. Thank god for Jack).

"I- uh-" There is also an awful load of sugar in her system, and it's blocking her ability to communicate like a responsible adult.

"Sorry, I, um..." Jesse suddenly turns his eyes upwards when she isn't able to give him a reply, refusing to look at her directly as he speaks through the blush that has made its way on his cheeks. "I was... looking for you."

The comfortable silence that ensues is anything but.

"I, um..."

He's struggling for words here, and if she weren't so intoxicated right now, she would have let him struggle onwards. But good for him, she's a little tipsy tonight.

"You're not my pizza man, so I take it it's not for pizza."

"You have a personal pizza man?" It comes with a chuckle, his eyes still cast upwards. She doesn't know if his laugh is from her remark, or from the way she just slurred it. Either way, it's a cute-sounding chuckle.

He peels his eyes away from the ceiling, and looks at her. His features, the smiley expression from that chuckle, falls from his face.

"Are you drunk?"

"Oh, no. I just have some form of speech retardation every Friday night," she smirks. But then, his face doesn't match her wit (seriously, _why is he looking at her like that?_) and she changes tactics.

"Dude, I am fine. Just had a teency bit to... _hic_... drink. You wanted to see me?"

(She is now shamefully hiding Jack in her left hand, out of Jesse's line of sight. She and Jack will have to remain a dirty little secret.)

It takes him moment to reply. "You wanna go out tonight?"

The offer is... _wow. Really?_

"Why?"

It's the first thing on her mind, and she curses her inner asshole that chooses to come out on drunken shenanigans. She hopes that doesn't come across as too offensive.

"Because alcohol is no fun without anyone else," he replies. Even in her state, she is still sensible enough to know when a remark deserves her mocky-faces. Her _oh really?_ faces.

"And I saw you hide that Jack Daniels behind your back, Beca."

"So keen. Are you the alcohol police?"

"My best friend likes close-up magic."

It's the infamous pursed-lip smile that she gives him, and his eyes crinkle. She'd like to see more of those eyes, she decides. They look nice.

"I should probably put on some pants first," she says, and pauses before she completely turns around. She doesn't like bars, and she doesn't like people. But he wants to keep her company, and she's been pouring her life story on Jack for half an hour now. So... what the hell. Time to change up the scene. YOLO.

"You wanna come in?"

...

Two and a half bottles, a fast smudge of eyeliner, and one (of her more decent) pair of yoga pants later, they're sitting on the floor, backs to the sofa, shoulder to shoulder, wavelengths at an easy, matching pace with one another as they both decide that, yes, they had awkward almost-sex the other week. But at least they can enjoy each other's company tonight, as mediated by their slight substance abuse.

"No dude, I'm serious!" she chuckles, her small arms absently reaching for the bottle that he keeps just out of her reach. "I fucking hate Taylor Swift, but, like, not really, you know?"

"Mhmm," he replies against the lip of the bottle, taking a sip.

"I mean, sure, she's like, an obnoxious blond who likes to bitch about her fifteen hundred exes but... (He gives her the bottle and she pauses to take a swig)... her songs are just so damn catchy." Beca hisses it out, because it's infuriating. Ugh. Taylor fucking Swift with her Johns and her Drews her damned Harry Styles. How that woman, with mosquito bites for boobs, can attract a harem is beyond Beca. Still. I Knew You Were Trouble is Beca's shower song. She will not apologize.

"I know. It's like that one time I went through a Bruno Mars phase and I don't even know what the hell I was thinking."

"Guilty pleasures, man."

"_Just the way you are_," he sings. Surprisingly, in tune.

"You sing?" she asks. He looks at her through the lust... of alcohol. Definitely alcohol, she rationalizes.

"Maybe."

She rolls her eyes at him, and tries to (unsuccessfully) keep the bottle away from him, as he struggles to get it, his arms draping clumsily across her as she laughs when he grabs it.

"Do _you_ sing?" he asks her, before taking a swig.

"Maybe."

The silence that ensues this time around is comfortable. Gentle. Like the hum of the blood in her ears, or the dull beating of her numb heart, or the warmth of a friendly body next to her. It's nice.

"I need to tell you something."

The suddenness of his voice, not a bit hinted with their lack of care tonight, takes her away from thoughts of how nice this is, and brings her to thoughts of how _not_ nice this might pan out, now that they're sufficiently intoxicated to make several, hugely regrettable(y fun) mistakes.

Just like fate, Beca's iPad hooked to her speakers starts a strangely familiar song. She's not sure why it sounds familiar, or why it reminds her of him, but it does. She turns towards him, but he keeps his eyes locked at a point on the floor. Possibly where her leg is brushing against the fabric of his pants. Maybe.

"Sounds serious," she comments, hoping so much that it isn't actually _that _serious...

"Chloe and I really are broken up." This time, he looks at her in all earnestness. Too much, for her own comfort, and for her own good. Ack. She licks her lips in response, going for her default solution, the bottle that is Jack. Ah, Jack. Things were much simpler a few hours ago, when it was just she and Jack. No life-threatening words like "I need to tell you something" or "It's not you, it's me". She takes a swig, only to find it empty.

"I need more alcohol" is her way of saying _I'm not drunk enough for this shit_, as she stands up and goes to the kitchen, which is a completely separate part of the apartment. She doesn't know what that's supposed to mean, but she needs to _not_ be within kissing proximity of a hot, dorky gentleman who likes music, because _he is Chloe's goddamned ex_, _so get yourself together._

She comes back, and he's gone.

* * *

**AN: **Brief interlude from writer's block of my other fic. I dunno. It's all over the place. Just needed to write.


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